No Tears
by SilverStarsAndMoons
Summary: Izzie and Addison face the biggest challenge of their relationship when Addison is diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Five chapters take us through Addison's fight and Izzie's memories. Can love survive death? Warning: canon character death.
1. 1,000 Oceans

**1,000 Oceans**

_These tears I've cried, I've cried 1,000 oceans_

_And if it seems I'm floating in the darkness, well_

_I can't believe that I would keep_

_Keep you from flying . . ._

_And I would cry 1,000 more if that's what it takes_

_To sail you home, sail you home, sail you home._

It's all black today, here in this musty church with Addison and a bunch of other people who have come to pay their respects. Izzie can't believe that it's been over a week since she last held Addison in her arms, since she last kissed her fragile lips, since she last stroked her poor short hair that still flamed red, even when the rest of her was white and dying.

Black – yes, black like the sky outside, because this is an evening funeral in the dark of winter; black like the marble casket in front of Izzie, with the faint white streaks that show that even in death, Addison's still stylish. Black like the priest's robes, black like the funeral outfits, black that's in style and black that's a swallowing hole of darkness that Izzie's inexorably falling into, even though Meredith is holding her hand and Cristina is rubbing her shoulders.

You see, this isn't like Denny. It seems like it would be, but it's not. Because Izzie really did know Denny for about five minutes. She kissed him, but she never slept with him, or shared her life with him. It's different when you've known someone inside out – seen her smile and cry, seen her face light up at Christmastime when you give her what she's always wanted, seen her clawing at her hair after she lost both a mother and child that she was sure was going to live. And all of Addison's friends who are sitting here today in this church – every single one of them – they didn't know Addie like she did. They didn't realize what it was like to give yourself fully to someone, to tie your life directly to theirs. So they really don't get it when they say how sorry they are, because it feels like Izzie's dead, too. Because this is the second lover she's lost, and the best.

The funeral's beginning, and Izzie has to push through the glue in her head to hear what the priest is saying. Addison was what she jokingly called a "lapsed Catholic", and you'd rarely see her in a church. However, Izzie alone know of the true spirituality that Addison possessed, and knew that even if she didn't attend mass every Sunday, she never missed her nightly prayer. She lit candles for friends in need. She knelt in front of icons and kissed the golden-flecked painted robes. So, when everyone questioned why Izzie decided to hold a funeral service in a Catholic church, Izzie was ready to tell them about Addison and her religion, but found that she really couldn't get the words out. And she didn't want to. Screw them all – if Addie wanted a service in a church, then that was what Izzie was going to give her. Because Izzie always gave Addie whatever she wanted, and why stop now? Izzie buries her head in her hands, feeling the tears slip through her fingers. Why, when this is the last time she can make Addison happy?

_I'm aware what the rules are, but you know that I would run_

_You know that I will follow you_

_Over Silbury Hill, through the solar field_

_You know that I will follow you_

"Dr. Addison Marie Forbes Montgomery, top neonatal surgeon at Seattle Grace Hospital, was a woman of great personal strength. She was known as a compassionate doctor, wonderful wife, and a caring friend."

No, there wasn't anything Addison wouldn't do. Like that time that Alex's mother had a stroke and no medical insurance to pay for treatment. Addie had managed to pull a few strings, found a doctor who was a former student of hers to perform the treatment for free. She had then secretly paid for ongoing physical and mental therapy for Mrs. Karev because she knew what an intern's salary is like and she knew Alex couldn't afford it. And who could forget how she'd helped her patients through the years, sometimes even jeopardizing her career? Addison had always told Izzie that she needed to be less emotional and more professional, that she needed to take a step back from her patients and be objective. But that was the one thing that Addison could never practice what she preached – she was always involved, with every patient, every friend, everyone she ever knew. Addison had immense capacity for forgiveness and immense empathy for humankind. It was something you didn't see nowadays.

Izzie is due to give the eulogy, and for a minute, she feels like she can't speak. However, the whole church is watching her – everyone wants to know a little bit more about Addie, some side of her that only Izzie knows. For a minute, she wants to run out of the church and just bury herself somewhere where no one can bother her. But she owes Addison this. She owes Addison the honour of being remembered.

Her black skirt swishes around her calves; her heels clack loudly on the marble floor. Izzie reaches the altar, turns, stares at her reflection in the casket, which is mercifully closed. Addison was always beautiful, even in death, but her wasted body and drawn face would shock anyone who hadn't lived with it for the last year. It was best that everyone remembered her from the large picture set up on the easel beside the coffin. Addie smiles confidently at Izzie now; her long red hair is swept back, her blue eyes twinkle from the frame, and suddenly Izzie knows exactly what to say. She touches the cool black marble gently – she strokes the smoothness, leaving a small finger mark. And now, Izzie's ready.

"I know, you're all here to remember Addison," she begins, her voice rusty from disuse and almost non-stop tears. In fact, she can feel the ache in the back of her throat that tells her that she won't make it through this speech without crying. Nevertheless. Nevertheless.

"I lived with Addison for a year and a half as her wife. Before that, I was her student. She taught me everything I knew about obstetrics and gynecology. I don't think, out of all the teachers that I have ever had, that I had a better one than Addie, and that's the truth. Because she had such a respect for life, you know? We surgeons . . . we fix people, you know, we put them back together. Parts to make a whole. A new part to make the body go again. It's easy to forget that a patient is a person instead of an organism with many moving parts. But Addie never forgot that. She never forgot about the person behind the patient, and that's what made her a good doctor. Not just her skill in the OR, not just the way that she saved most of the babies she delivered, or managed to make early diagnoses. She listened to what a patient wanted and she listened to their fears. Addison understood what it was like to be on the other side of the stirrups, because earlier this year, she experienced it herself."

Izzie looks out into the crowd, looks out at all the eyes that are looking back at her. She sees her friends; Meredith is clutching Derek's hand and wiping her eyes. Derek is staring at Izzie, his face disbelieving, like he can't believe that he's experiencing his ex-wife's funeral. Well, Izzie can't believe it either, and she, like him, was there when Addison died. Mark is rubbing his huge fists into his eyes, trying to keep it under control. Izzie feels for him the most, because he really loved her, maybe more than Izzie ever could. And way in the back, under a black hat with heavy netting, she sees the blonde hair and pointed face of Savvy, who begged Addison for a hysterectomy, oophorectomy, and mastectomy so that she could avoid exactly what Addison went through. Looking at Savvy, Izzie suddenly finds the strength to go on with her eulogy. She clears her throat.

_And if I find you, will you still remember?_

_Playing at trains, or does this little blue ball_

_Just fade away?_

_Over Silbury Hill, through the solar field_

_You know that I will follow you_

_I'm aware what the rules are, but you know that I would run_

_You know that I will follow you_

"So, yeah. Addie had ovarian cancer. It almost seemed ironic, you know, because she's spent so many years trying to fight it, even doing a fellowship in oncology research, because she felt so strongly about trying to cure the disease. It's so . . . unfair." Izzie's voice breaks and she tries to get it under control. "We knew the odds, you know, we knew what would happen. But she believed up until the day she died that the science she believed in would come through for her. We both believed it." Izzie wipes her eyes, hears sniffles from the congregation.

The fight hadn't been long, but it had been hard, because Addison seemed to react badly to nearly every single treatment that could be offered. She spent days throwing up, hours on the toilet after radiation, and at the end, weeks in bed, too weak to even walk across the room. She'd insisted on having her laptop near, determined to work until she couldn't. She'd even wanted to go to the Maternity floor after her chemotherapy sessions to continue working. It had been heartbreaking to see her face crumple with tears when she'd taken one look at a patient's vagina and had to run from the room to throw up, spending two hours hunched over the toilet before Izzie found her and taken her home. Addison, who'd had the strongest stomach of anyone. Addison, who had rarely taken a sick day.

"I can't remember a day that I didn't wake up and not feel grateful that Addison was lying beside me. I can't remember a moment that she wasn't there for me, to hold me up. I can't remember loving someone this much, ever. For me, her death has been almost devastating." Izzie's voice drops, the tears start to fall again, but this time she lets them. "But she's at peace now – and she was so sick. Some of you don't know how sick. She . . . she just wasn't Addison then."

Izzie finishes her speech, tries to find something positive to end on, can't. "So you remember Addie as she was – like that," she says, pointing to the picture. "Don't remember the woman in this coffin. Remember the amazing doctor – remember the wonderful friend. And for some of you, who knew her the best, well. I don't think you'll run out of things to remember. How can you? She's left enough memories for all of us."

Izzie sits down, feels Cristina's hand on her shoulders again, squeezing. She feels the warmth of Meredith beside her, but she can't really feel it inside. Because this feels like it's it for Izzie. She's given her heart twice and twice the recipients have died on her. And maybe it's some kind of curse, she doesn't know. But she can't bear the thought of going home to the empty brownstone and crawling between the cold sheets, reaching out for the only person that she's ever felt truly comfortable with. The only person she's ever really loved, loved so fiercely that her head aches with the thought of her.

The funeral ends. Izzie troops out with the others, allows them to press her hand, say their condolences, try to find closure. Izzie wants to tell them that she doesn't have the closure that they want. Hell, she held Addison in her arms at the last, felt her last breath. She doesn't have the closure. She doesn't ever want closure, because if she can't feel this pain, then was the love real? And how is she supposed to live with that?

Can't this just be a dream? She closes her eyes and feels the tears come through them, healing and burning and swelling. She'd keep crying if only it meant that Addison would come back, that she could be sure that the pain wouldn't end and that she would forget her.

So many tears – it's like an ocean of tears. But she hasn't got a life raft. And she's so scared that she's going to forget Addison's face, forget her voice, because she's crying out all her memories and soon there will be nothing left.

_These tears I've cried, I've cried 1,000 oceans_

_And if it seems I'm floating in the darkness, well_

_I can't believe that I would keep_

_Keep you from flying . . ._

_And I would cry 1,000 more if that's what it takes_

_To sail you home, sail you home, sail you home, sail_

_Sail you home._

Where are you?


	2. Somewhere Over the Rainbow

**Somewhere Over the Rainbow**

So it was after the funeral, sometime in the middle of the night, that Izzie got to thinking about it all. She was staying at Meredith's, because she couldn't fathom the thought of going back to the house – all those empty rooms, Addison's scratched up piano, her clothes in the closet and her shoes that lay beside the bed, never upright, one leaning over the other. Izzie knew it would be the shoes that would kill her the most. Addison loved her shoes; she had this contraption in the closet that held them all. They were all different colours; all different styles. Addie had labeled them all – she had these little white labels below every spot – "Manolo, red, 1998". Izzie used to tease her about her compulsion, but now she missed it. Now she'd give anything to watch Addison print, in her best, non-doctor scrawl, the information on the tag and stick it just-so onto the stand. No, she couldn't look at the shoes.

It had been at least a month before Izzie found out. Until then, there was just a general sense of wrongness – both at work and at home. Like when Addison would turn away from her at night, or when she wouldn't answer a question right away, staring into the table before looking up with tears in her eyes to beg Izzie's pardon; could she repeat herself, please? Addison was always so sure of herself. She always paid attention. So much of this was just not right. And she wouldn't answer when Izzie asked, just shook her head, tried to smile. It was so Addison, to put a brave face on it. To try to save Izzie from any grief. To carry it alone.

_Somewhere, over the rainbow_

_Way up high_

_There's a land that I heard of_

_Once in a lullabye._

When Izzie did find out, they were on a consult for an older lady, around fifty, who was having abdominal pain. Addison had just completed her pelvic exam and with a smile, excused herself and wandered into her office. Izzie suddenly felt wrong, standing in the room next to the lady, so she followed Addison into her office to see her crouched on the floor, against the wall, crying low, tortured sobs into the sleeve of her lab coat. At this point, Izzie didn't care what the matter was – she simply dropped beside Addie and took the red-haired woman into her arms. After Addison had finished crying, after she was a runny, snotty, teary mess, she raised her eyes to Izzie's, lips in that half-upset, half-satirical pout, and said, "She's got ovarian cancer. How can I tell her she's got ovarian cancer?"

Izzie had been confused. "Addie . . . it's your job?" She stared quizzically into Addison's blue, blue eyes, even bluer with the infusion of tears. She had never been more confused, but something in Addie's eyes answered the confusion and unbidden, Izzie's lower lips began to tremble. "Addie . . . you'd better tell me what's going on. You'd better tell me right now," she said, her voice beginning to shake a little.

But even as the words fell from Addie's lips; even as Izzie knew what she was going to say, it didn't make it any easier. And the two of them spent five minutes just taking pause from the world, making time to cry, cry because they both knew the stats and they both knew that if Addison was this upset, there was nothing they could do. Nothing they could do, when they were both doctors and they both believed in science.

It took a little less than a year, give or take. It was early spring when Izzie found out and three days after Christmas when Addison died. It was one of the best and worst years of both their lives.

_Somewhere, over the rainbow_

_Skies are blue_

_And the dreams that you dare to dream_

_Really do come true._

**Spring**

"So, when's the chemo appointment?"

They were sitting outside in the hospital cafeteria, shortly after Addison's oophorectomy. She had been in the hospital for two days and was starting to feel a lot better. Her colour was back, her hair flames against her ivory-pink face, her blue eyes bright. She had even gotten dressed that day, wearing soft expensive grey pants and a silken white blouse. If you didn't know that she had just had surgery, you would have thought that Addison was taking time for lunch, between appointments. However, anyone that knew her knew that she wasn't okay, because she was missing her designer footwear, and a wheelchair was parked just behind her seat.

"I don't know, in another two weeks or so? They want to see how the oophorectomy heals. And to check how far it's spread, of course." Addison coughed a little, pushed away her chicken soup. "Why does hospital food have to suck so much?"

"Because they don't want you to stay here longer than you have to," Izzie replied, rechecking her charts and writing down a comment or two on them. Addison snatched the chart that Izzie was working on and shook her head. "No, we didn't have to cauterize the tube. We were going to, but we managed to stop the bleeding."

Izzie corrected the chart and smiled. "Nice. You make a horrible patient, you know." Addison grinned back and stretched a little, wincing as her stitches pulled. "All doctors do." She smiled as Cristina, Meredith and Alex came up and sat down, throwing their trays on the table with a clatter. "Good morning, doctors. Bad day?" She raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying their disgruntled expressions.

"I really hate cardiothoracics," Cristina had hissed. "Why did I ever want to go into it? All it is, is listening to overblown attendings telling me how much I suck." She slumped against her chair, pouting. Addison laughed aloud. "We're not all that bad, Yang." She coughed again, putting a hand to her lower belly. "Ouch," she muttered.

"Dr. Montgomery – how are you feeling?" Meredith asked unctuously, choosing to ignore the fact that things still weren't completely fine between them; that they were still awkward, even after Addison gave up on Derek altogether and turned to Mark, and then to Izzie. But Meredith is a dark and twisty being, and she sees the world a little differently than normal people. To Meredith, things might never be okay. Addison was fine with it. She had more useful things to think about.

"Fine, thanks, Meredith. I'm feeling okay." Addison swirled her spoon around in her soup and suddenly yawned. Izzie recognized the signs – she pointed to the wheelchair. "Bedtime."

Addison raised an eyebrow at her. "What, Stevens?"

Izzie pointed at the chair again. "Bedtime, Addison. You might be feeling better, but both you and I know that if you overdue it, you're going to put yourself back at least two more days." She stood up and put her hands on Addie's shoulders, rubbing them a little. "You have to rest," Izzie whispered.

To anyone else who was watching, it seemed that Addison suddenly remembered a consult she had to do, or charting she hadn't finished. She rose gracefully and bid goodbye to all of the doctors at her table. However, if you looked closely, you would have seen that Addie wasn't arguing, nor was she ordering anyone around. She was quite willing to sit in the wheelchair and go back to bed. It was the first time that Izzie felt that something was wrong.

Addison sat in the chemo chair, watching the clock and watching the IV needle in her arm. The bag of chemicals was almost empty, and she knew her time was almost up. Her foot tapped impatiently on the floor and she sighed, shifting fretfully in her chair. Izzie looked up from her magazine. "Do you feel sick, sweetie?"

"No. I want to get out of here," Addison grumbled. "I've got a patient at one and at least five charts to finish before I can get out of here today."

Izzie rolled her eyes. "I don't know why you scheduled patients today, especially since you don't know how you're going to react to the chemo."

"It doesn't matter," Addison replied. "They gave me anti-nauseants, I should be fine. Dr. McLeod prescribed Zofran if I start to get sick – it's the strongest drug on the market for chemo-related vomiting. Anyway, I never throw up. I'll be okay." Izzie rolled her eyes. "Fine. Have it your way." She continued to read her magazine while Addison tossed aside several magazines before she found one that she wanted to read – Chatelaine, dated four months ago. She flipped it open and read with apparent interest. Izzie hid a smile. Anything fashion would always distract Addie.

The nurse came back in at that point and unhooked Addison. "Okay, Dr. Montgomery, you should take it easy for the rest of the afternoon. No heavy meals, no fatty or greasy foods, you know the drill." Addison was nodding emphatically after every statement. "Thanks, Colleen." Once the nurse had finished checking her vital signs, Addison got up and smiled at the nurse. She said to Izzie, "I'll be down on three – I've got patients for the rest of the afternoon. I should see you home tonight, okay, sweetie?"

Nurse Colleen's brow furrowed. "Dr. Montgomery, you can't go yet. You need to sit for a few minutes so that we can make sure that you're okay to walk out of here. Chemotherapy is an incredible shock to the system. You don't know how you'll react to it. I don't need to tell you this, doctor." She looked disapproving, but Addison brushed her off. "Dr. Stevens will be around if anything happens to me this afternoon, Colleen. I should be okay - it wasn't that big of a dose."

The nurse shrugged and looked at Izzie. "She has the number of the answering service," said Izzie. "And she's got Dr. McLeod's pager number."

Addison was already walking out the door. Izzie smiled at the nurse and followed her out. Addison was bound and bent to continue with her life, and if it made her feel better, why not? Izzie had a surgery, so she headed to the OR, vowing to check up on Addison when she had a moment.

Two hours later, Izzie was cracking her neck back and forth and stretching out her hands when she got a page from the Mat floor. Suddenly, she realized that it had been a few hours and she didn't know how Addison was doing. She quickly scrubbed out and took the stairs two at a time.

When Izzie reached the floor, out of breath, her intern came up to her and said, worriedly, "I've been looking for Dr. Montgomery, but I can't find her. Has she paged you at all?"

"No, I've been in surgery." Izzie looked at the intern with concern. "Where was she last? With what patient?"

"Room 2480. Mrs. Hatfield." The intern pointed down the hall and Izzie thanked her, setting off at a near-run. She cursed herself for letting Addison go back to work so soon after the chemo, and when she reached the room, she was in a frenzy of worry. "Mrs. Hatfield, I'm Dr. Stevens. I just wondered – do you know where Dr. Montgomery is?"

The young pregnant woman lying on the bed looked up and smiled. "She excused herself about an hour ago – I'm not sure where she is."

Izzie left the room, checking up and down the hallways, looking in rooms and in alcoves for Addison. Finally, she gave up, sitting on the bench outside of the nurses' station. Addison could have just gone home. She tried paging her, but there was no answer. Finally, she headed to the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face.

As she stepped into the bathroom, she heard the sounds of someone vomiting and suddenly knew exactly where Addison was. Pushing open the door of the last stall, she found Addison, red hair around her sweating, white face, kneeling in front of the toilet.

"Oh, sweetie." Izzie knelt beside Addie and held her hair back, away from her face. "When did this start?"

"Don't even say it," snapped Addie, gasping a little as she tried to control her breathing. She gave up and vomited again. "Don't even tell me that you knew this was going to happen."

Izzie simply cuddled Addison, supporting her back and rubbing her shoulders. "I wouldn't say that to you."

Addison finished throwing up and slumped against the wall. "I want to go home," she whispered. "I wish I didn't want to."

"There's no shame in it, Addie." Izzie stood and pulled Addison up with her. She took the attending in her arms, cuddling her close and kissing her hair. "It's okay to not feel good sometimes." Addison sniffled, but didn't admit it.

_One day I'll wish upon a star_

_And wake up where the clouds are far behind me_

_Where troubles melt like lemon drops_

_Away above the chimney tops_

_That's where you'll find me._

**Summer**

"Figures, when I go to take anti-nausea medication, it doesn't work for me," complained Addison, pushing her thinning hair out of her face. The worst part, secretly thought Izzie, had been when Addison's magnificent flame-coloured hair had started to fall out. Addison, who had rarely cried through any of this – not even when she started dropping weight, or couldn't keep anything down for the last month – had cried when she started to lose her hair. Izzie had woken up early one morning to hear sobbing from Addison's side of the bed, and when she had turned over, she'd found Addie holding long red strands in her hands. The hair glinted in the minted early light, and Addison hadn't been able to say anything. She'd just cried and cried. Izzie hadn't said anything either – but she'd taken a lock of Addison's hair from the pillow after the attending had gotten up and put it in a blue china box on her dresser.

Izzie had been hard-pressed to find something that Addison would eat – she threw everything up and now pushed nearly everything away, or ate a bite and then stopped. Izzie tried to understand – after all, everyone knew what it was like to be forced to eat when you felt like crap – but Addison needed to eat to have the strength to endure the chemo. Plus, she had a cough that she just couldn't seem to shake. Addison speculated that her stomach acid had burned her trachea, so that's why she had a constant cough, but Izzie was slightly more worried. However, she tried to stay cheerful for Addie. It was the only thing she could do, under the circumstances.

In the spring, she had fed, or tried to feed, Addison light, nourishing soups and soft, easy things to digest. Addie had especially enjoyed the carrot-ginger soup and chocolate-cherry ice cream. Sometimes, just to be sexy, she would entreat Izzie to feed her the ice cream, licking it from Izzie's fingers or twirling her tongue around the spoon, which made them both laugh. Sometimes, Izzie would lean forward and kiss the cherry bits and white chocolate from Addison's lips, combining the taste of Addie with the delicious taste of the ice cream.

Izzie had also kept up the BRAT diet – bananas, rice, applesauce and toast – before and after chemotherapy. Dr. McLeod had advised Addison to eat lightly the night before chemo, so Izzie would make sure she had a light, clear soup or mashed potatoes, with lots of water and apple juice. Afterwards, when she was literally too sick to keep anything down, Izzie would feed her crackers and dry toast, with a little bit of ginger ale. When Addison wasn't eating, she'd drink – the chemo made her incredibly thirsty. She was constantly drinking water or ginger ale or tea, which was at least good for her bladder. The drugs she was on had the tendency to irritate her bladder if she didn't drink before and after chemo, and receive IV liquids through the process. Twice, she had needed IV fluids in the hospital, because she had been so dehydrated from the vomiting. Despite all the care, Addison was becoming gaunt and pale, her eyes starting to develop hollows underneath them and her red hair almost gone.

Tonight, Addison wasn't in the mood for anything. However, the fresh summer berries were ready at the market, so Izzie had picked up some of Addison's favourite strawberries and some fresh cream. She had made Addison a cold cucumber soup, but things tasted differently to the attending these days and she had barely touched it.

"Come on, Addie, sweetheart – you have to eat something," said Izzie, almost begging her. Addison's eyes were closed and she had a cold cloth over her forehead. Izzie spooned a little bit of the soup into her mouth. It was fresh and didn't have much of a smell, which was good, since anything strong would make Addison throw up. Addie slitted her eyes open and obediently opened her mouth, wincing as she swallowed.

"That's it for today," she mumbled, turning carefully onto her side. "I can't eat any more."

Izzie sighed and put the soup aside. "I have some berries?" she asked hopefully. Addison turned back over. "What kind of berries?"

"Strawberries," Izzie smiled. She took the dish from the tray beside the bed. "See? Your favourite." Addison sat up a little more and took the spoon into her hand. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing," she said grumpily. "And don't think I appreciate you treating me like a wayward two-year-old." However, she spooned up a berry and popped it into her mouth. "Oh, my God, Izzie . . . that's just what I wanted," she said, a little bit of cream falling onto her lower lip. She smiled at Izzie and just for a second, she looked like the old Addison.

Between them, they finished the bowl of berries and cream, while Addison asked Izzie about the hospital and about her patients. She hadn't seen patients for at least a month, but she was still interested in their progress. Izzie sat on the side of the bed, swinging her leg back and forth, telling her all the gossip from the hospital. "Guess who I saw today?"

"Who?" Addison coughed, sitting up a little more.

"Mark Sloan. He asked me how you were doing," replied Izzie, carefully looking at the floor. She knew how Mark felt about Addison – the conversation had been awkward. She hadn't spared details; she knew Mark wanted to know exactly how Addie was doing. When she told him about Addison's hair, she thought she saw a glint in his eyes. But he covered it up well, told Izzie to pass along his regards, and continued on his way.

"Did you tell him I was as sexy as ever?" Addison asked saucily, smiling. It was like watching a shadow smile. Izzie looked away. "I told him you were beautiful and vibrant."

There was silence in the room for a moment. Then, it was broken by Addison's harsh sobs.

_Somewhere, over the rainbow_

_Bluebirds fly_

_Birds fly over the rainbow – _

_Why, oh why can't I?_

**Fall**

It had spread – Izzie could have told Addison that, but she knew that Addie needed to hear it for herself. The cough had heralded a tumour in the lungs . . . and they both knew, even despite the recent radiation, that this wasn't going to go well. Addison had been on the toilet for days. Her poor bottom was almost raw, and she used a cream meant for infant diaper rash to keep it from cracking open and bleeding. She said nothing, but Izzie could see the spark in her eyes fading.

The weather had turned colder. It was October, and the leaves were changing colour. Sometimes, Addison would ask Izzie if they could walk, but she could never walk very far, so they spent a lot of their time sitting on the front porch. Izzie always made sure that Addie was wrapped in a warm blanket, a hat pulled down over her bald head. Her face was so thin now; her eyes were huge and hollow, it was like looking at a mask. No one really came by to see her, anymore. Addison said nothing – she really didn't say much, these days – but Izzie knew it hurt her. She had tried to urge Derek and Meredith to come over more, because Addie seemed to shine a little more when they played Scrabble by the fire or even just talked over a cup of weak chai tea, but she knew it was hard for them to see her like this. Meredith was guilty – she had told Izzie as much, one night after Addison had gone to bed. She felt like she had wished this on her. Izzie hadn't known what to say to that. Derek had simply held her hand and said nothing, but they all knew it wasn't true. No one would wish this on anyone.

Tonight, Addison wasn't talking at all. She stared at the wall, her eyes dull. Izzie had brought her some of her favourite foods, all warming and rich. A chicken stew, with no spices, only potatoes and cooked carrots; a cup of warm apple cider, even though she knew that Addison wouldn't want to drink much of it; and a fresh roll. Addie had picked at the food – gone were the days where she would refuse it. She moved like an automaton, spooning a little stew into her mouth, sipping a little bit from her cup. Soon, her hands, once so beautiful and shapely, stilled on the covers, and she just stopped everything.

Izzie, watching her from the chair directly beside the bed, felt something sinking inside. With every leaf that fell from the trees, she felt like Addison's spirit was fading. She knew that cancer patients sometimes went through this. The cancer had been too far along to ensure a good fight, but sometimes she wanted Addison to care more, to fight more. Didn't she care about Izzie? Didn't she care about living? God, she was only thirty-nine years old . . . Izzie, although she mostly kept her crying secret (or so she thought) from Addison, felt herself tearing up and she turned her head away, trying not to sniffle.

Addison roused from whatever daydream she was in and turned her blue eyes on Izzie. Her voice was a little hoarse, now, since she rarely spoke. "Izzie?"

Izzie surreptitiously wiped a few tears from her cheeks. "Yes, sweetie? Can I get you something?"

"Izzie." The resident looked up at Addison, met her eyes for the first time, and suddenly, she couldn't keep the tears back. "I'm so-sorry," she sobbed, gasping a little.

Addison's eyes changed. She had always been one to spot someone else's suffering, but when you're incredibly sick, it's hard to see into someone else's world when yours is so hard to maintain. She moved her pale hand across the covers, grasped Izzie's warm one. Izzie was amazed at how cold her hands were, and moved her other hand to warm Addison's thin one. Addison started to speak, never taking her eyes from Izzie's.

"Honey . . . I don't want to have this talk, and I know you don't, either. But if I don't say it, I'm not going to, and I don't want you to be angry at me after I'm gone." Izzie made to say something, but Addie cut her off. "No, we both know it. We both know it's only a matter of time, now. It's spreading, sweetheart – it's not going to go away." A tear slipped down Addison's cheek and Izzie picked up her hand, laid it against her cheek. Addison tilted her head to one side, a soft smile coming over her face.

"Don't cry. We've had more happiness in one year than I've had in my whole life. I've known a lot of amazing things, more than some people ever get to know. I've got to come to terms with this," – she swallowed a sob – "but I'm okay with it, I think. I need you to know that I'm okay with this."

Two more tears slipped down Izzie's face. "I wish you weren't okay with it," she whispered. "I wish you would fight more." A hurt look came over Addison's face and Izzie struggled to make it better. "You know what I mean. I just . . . I just don't want to lose you," she gasped, her voice breaking.

Addie looked at her for a long time. Then she opened her arms and Izzie crawled into bed beside her, cradling her thin body, feeling her heart beat through the bones of her back. "It's okay, sweetie. It's okay. It's okay if you're tired," she whispered into the soft skin on Addison's skull.

Addie's breath hitched and she coughed, but she closed her eyes. "Okay. One day at a time."

_Where troubles melt like lemon drops_

_Away above the chimney tops_

_That's where you'll find me._

**Winter**

Christmastime had always been Addison's favourite time of year. She would spend hours with Derek, poring over Scottish catalogs, shopping for hours in the classiest department stores, and always taking a weekend to decorate the house and her office. These days, Addison couldn't get out of bed, but that didn't stop Izzie from making sure that Addie's favourite holiday made her happy. They both were ignoring the fact that it could be any day now. They were determined to make it a good Christmastime, despite everything. Derek and Meredith were invited over, as well as George and Callie. Addison was nearly too weak to see visitors, but she had insisted. Izzie knew why, but she said nothing.

A small Christmas tree was set up in Addison's room, and its beautiful, twinkling lights cast a pink, blue, gold and white glow over Addison's pale face. In the middle of November, they had realized that the cancer had spread everywhere, and no amount of chemotherapy or radiation was going to help. They had sent Addie home with palliative care measures, mostly pain medication to keep her comfortable. They had suggested that she stay in the hospital, but Addison had been adamant. She was going to spend Christmas at home. She didn't care what they did with her after that.

Her hair had started to grow back – it was about an inch and a half long, gentle, baby-soft red curls all over her head. Addison liked it when Izzie sat in bed and played with her hair. She would close her eyes and hum gently, whatever was on her mind. A few times, she had asked to be taken to the piano to play something. She could never sit up long, but even touching the keys made her smile. At this point, Izzie was willing to do anything. Anything for one more day.

Izzie came up the stairs, followed by Derek and Meredith. Addison had insisted on wearing her Christmas silk nightgown, a present from Izzie last Christmas. Even though the smell would bother her, she had made Izzie light a cinnamon-apple-scented candle to cover up the smell of antiseptic and sick person. She had already thrown up twice, but she wouldn't let Izzie blow it out.

"Hi, sweetheart," said Derek, coming over and kissing Addie's pale cheek. She smiled at him, her eyes already slitting closed. He stroked her soft hair and smiled gently at her. "How's it going today?"

"Oh, okay." Addison brushed the question off. She smiled at Meredith, who came over to hold her hand. Meredith could never quite keep the tears out of her eyes, but she did well to smile and to act as normal as possible. Addison was extremely hard to look at if you weren't used to her.

Addie sipped at a cup of weak ginger tea while everyone else had hot buttered rum. Meredith had brought peppermint candy canes, and everyone dipped theirs into their drink. Addison, not to be outdone, demanded a candy cane and dipped it into her tea. Izzie, sitting beside her, gently took it out and rimmed it around Addie's dry lips. Addison carefully licked her lips, smiling when she tasted the sweet, minty taste. "Mm," she murmured, leaning against Izzie.

Derek put a small, soft package on Addison's lap. "That's from Mere and me," he said, smiling. Addison grinned, much like a little kid would when presented with a gift, and struggled to take the paper off. Izzie helped her, and they revealed a soft white shawl, made of English wool. Addie smiled ecstatically. "It's perfect!" she squealed.

Izzie draped it around Addison's shoulders and Meredith moved it into place. Addison closed her eyes for a moment, and they were all silent, listening to the soft sounds of John Tesh's Christmas album on the stereo, watching the lights twinkle on the tree. Meredith stared out the window. "Hey, it's snowing!" she said, looking surprised. "It pretty much never does that here."

"It won't stick," said Derek, shaking his head, but Addison shook her head back. "I want to see it," she whispered.

The three exchanged worried gazes. "Addie, sweetie . . ." Izzie started, but Addison cut her off. "Please." Her voice held a hint of tears, and Izzie blinked back a few of her own. "Come on, Der, help me get her to the window."

Meredith opened it and gently slid back the screen. A cold draft blew into the room, and Izzie shielded Addie from it with her body, trying not to aggravate her condition. They wrapped her warmly in blankets and in her shawl, covering her head and part of her face. Then, Derek and Izzie helped her walk to the window, where Meredith had placed a chair. Addie sat and stared out the window, watching the flakes drift by. They were just flurries, but Addie reached a hand out to catch one, anyway.

The tears began to stream down Izzie's face as she watched Addison's face change from tired to full of wonder. Addie began to hum again, something of her own making, and Derek stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. Meredith held Addison's right hand. Izzie kissed Addison's left hand. They all knew that this would be the last time they'd get to do this.

After a few moments, they closed the window and Izzie wrapped Addison in her blankets in bed. For a moment, they couldn't see Addison's face. When she weakly moved the covers aside, they saw that she was smiling.

_Birds fly over the rainbow – _

_Why, oh why can't I?_


	3. Lullabye

**Lullabye**

Izzie finds herself back at the brownstone, finally, after a week of staying in Meredith's house, sleeping in her old room, and pretending that she didn't have another life where she lived in a house that wasn't the comfortable, quirky old Queen Anne that has so many good and bad and secure memories in it. She still can't stand to be alone, though. And so she's insisted on having someone stay with her, at least until the echoes of Addison's laughter and the scent of her perfume fade from the atmosphere inside this house.

Everyone's taken this request in shifts – Meredith and Derek just left, so George and Callie are staying in the guest bedroom. Cristina has agreed to come in three days. Alex did his shift last week. Everyone's been careful to handle Izzie carefully, because the cracks from Denny have been split wide open, and they're not sure that this time they can be glued back together.

Handling Izzie carefully means holding her if she wants to be held, which she often does; sitting with her when she lies facedown on her bed, or listening to her talk about Addison. Mostly, these are just little memories, nothing huge – the way Addie used to laugh uncontrollably at the Simpsons, or how she used to hold her wine glass, with one finger slightly extended, the others gently cupping the bowl of the goblet. They don't complain, even when it seems like Izzie's grief is going to overwhelm them all. They don't complain, because they know it could be them. Life dealt them the winning hand this time; that may not always be true. So they stroke, they hug, they hold her hand . . . they try to give comfort to this broken soul.

Izzie is curled in bed. The sheets have been washed, washed multiple times, actually. She's tried to erase every remnant of Addison's scent from the pillows – the cool, flowery smell of her hair; the slightly minty note of her breath; the warm, swelling notes of her perfume that are given an even warmer scent because of her body heat. However, Izzie can still close her eyes and smell Addison right next to her. It doesn't matter how much Febreze she uses – she can even smell Addison the way she smelled when she died; slightly medicinal, but more just a dry, cool smell, like a rose that you've pressed in a book for years and then brought to the air.

The scent, even that light, almost whisper, brings a lump to Izzie's throat, which brings the tears stinging to her eyes. The tears are so sore and Izzie can taste that metallic salty feeling that you get from crying too much, but they fall anyway. It seems impossible that there are tears left to fall. She turns her face into the pillow and lets out a low, heartbroken sound, halfway between a wail and a moan. She knows that Callie and George are sleeping in the next room, but she can't contain it, she can't contain the grief pushing out of her, roaring out of her.

In the next room, George is oblivious to any noise, because he's asleep and when George sleeps, he's practically dead. But Callie is lying awake, and she hears Izzie's tears. Without really knowing why she's doing it, she gets up and pads to the door. Izzie and Callie are not really friends. They pretend, for George and once, for Addison, to be closer than they are, but they can't really get past the fact that Izzie and George once had a thing behind Callie's back, and that even though they're friends and nothing more now, the past is still standing between them. Callie, however, feels for Izzie, no less because when they both lost Addison, Callie lost one of her best friends. The grief almost seems to unite them. However, it's awkward, and Callie's really done no more than press Izzie's hand and murmur her condolences. Izzie, somewhere in the back of her head, knows that this is almost as hard for Callie as it is for her, but beyond a few instances of sympathetic, honest eye contact, she hasn't been able to offer Callie any comfort. And somehow, Callie is okay with that, because she's not one to need holding and she certainly isn't one to give that sort of comfort, either.

So she really has no idea why her hand is opening the door, or why she suddenly pushes open Izzie's door and steps inside the door. She can see Izzie in a ball under the covers, her face pressed into the pillow. She puts a hand on Izzie's back, feels the girl start and then relax, turning her face up to meet Callie's dark eyes. And it doesn't matter now, what sort of problems they had or how much they may have hated each other in the past, because death is the great equalizer and Callie can't stand the desperately lost look in Izzie's eyes. She sits on the side of the bed, her arms go around the girl, and Izzie's head comes down on her shoulder, her sobs and sniffles right next to Callie's ear. Callie begins to rock Izzie, trying to calm her, because doing this is calming Callie's own grief. Taking care of Addison's most-loved feels like a healing thing to do.

Izzie is muttering something, over and over, and Callie can't quite hear what she's saying. "Izzie? What is it?"

Izzie raises her head a fraction from Callie's shoulder and murmurs in a low, tear-clogged voice. "No tears."

Callie has no idea what she means. "What does that mean, _mija_?"

Izzie sits up and knows that if it wasn't three am and she wasn't this upset, she wouldn't be telling this story. But sometimes a white night is a time of introspection and healing, and sharing this with Callie is giving her a gift, too. So she talks and as she does, Callie's face smooths out and her eyes become soft. It's the only way to heal.

_Little child, be not afraid_

_The rain pounds harsh against the glass_

_Like an unwanted stranger_

_There is no danger_

_I am here tonight_

When Christmas was over and done with, and the wrapping paper had been folded neatly, all the presents put away, the tree was still sparkling on the table across from Addison's bed. The lights still played over Addie's white face and illuminated her tired blue eyes. It was three days after Christmas and Meredith and Derek were downstairs, preparing dinner for Izzie while she sat with Addison. Addie was fading in and out, but always with a smile on her face. Within the past day, she had almost stopped talking altogether. Izzie didn't mind. Her smiles were all Izzie needed.

This evening, Izzie was spooning clear chicken broth into Addison's mouth. The attending swallowed obediently, but her mind wasn't on the soup and nor was Izzie's. Something hung in the air between them – something just wasn't the same. Addison couldn't get up at all, now. She slept for most of the day, only waking when she was in extreme pain. It was then that Izzie had to gulp back the tears, because Addison cried like a little child, begging Izzie to stop the pain, calling for her mother and for God. Izzie knew the end was near, but it didn't make it any easier to watch the only person she'd ever loved like this dying.

Addison suddenly pushed away the spoon, its contents spilling onto the bedcovers. Izzie looked at her, wondering if she needed to throw up, but Addie caught her gaze and held it. "Izzie . . ." she whispered, her voice so weak that Izzie had to lean forward to hear her. Izzie's eyes filled with tears. "What is it, sweetheart? What is it?"

"You . . . have to promise me." Addison swallowed carefully. "I know . . . it's going to be hard enough but . . . promise me you won't cry . . . very long, okay?" She began to cough, turning her face to the side, the paroxysms bringing tears to her eyes. They spilled over and ran harmlessly down her cheeks. Two bright spots appeared in her paper-white face.

Izzie took Addison into her arms, feeling the bones poking through the older woman's skin and leaned her cheek against Addie's soft red curls. "Don't say that," she said, her voice cracking.

Addie closed her eyes, opened them, met Izzie's teary gaze. "The hardest . . . part about . . . this," she gasped, "is that . . . I can't bear the look . . . in your eyes right now."

Izzie felt awful and opened her mouth to apologize, but Addison's cold finger against her lips stopped the words from coming out. Without breaking her gaze, Addison whispered, "For now . . . forget, okay? No tears . . . because I'm . . . ready, but I can't accept it . . . when you cry."

_Little child_

_Be not afraid_

_Though thunder explodes_

_And lightning flash _

_Illuminates your tearstained face_

_I am here tonight_

In the middle of the night, Izzie, Meredith and Derek sat around the drawing room fire. Each had a cup of tea, but no one touched it. Derek had his head in his hands and Meredith kept stroking his hair, looking troubled. He hadn't said anything, but Izzie knew it was costing him to be here with Addie. At first, she had wondered why. Was it out of a sense of duty? Later, watching him smile so tenderly at Addison, watching him stroke back the curls from her forehead and drop a kiss on her cheek, she knew – he still loved her in some old, comfortable way that allowed him to love Meredith most and best. It was then that Izzie realized that sometimes, you could love two people at once.

Derek swirled his tea, placed the cup with a muffled clink on the glass table. "It won't be long now, you know."

Izzie felt the tears behind her eyes, but she nodded. "She's ready to go."

Meredith had tears running down her cheeks. "God, is it always like this?" She had lost her mother, but it had been quick and painless, and Meredith only forgave herself, Izzie knew, because Ellis had died with little pain and suffering.

Izzie put her hand over Meredith's. "It's not too bad, Mere. She's not in a lot of pain because of the morphine. She's just . . . tired." Her voice broke on the last word and Derek raised his eyes to Izzie, the tears gleaming in his blue eyes.

"I'm so glad she has you," he whispered. And Izzie leaned forward to catch his hand. "She's lucky to have you still."

_And someday you'll know_

_That nature is so_

_This same rain that draws you near me_

_Falls on rivers and land_

_And forests and sand_

_Makes the beautiful world that you see_

_In the morning_

When Izzie went up to bed, something compelled her to crawl into bed beside Addison in the master bedroom, as opposed to sleeping on the futon next to the bed. Addison seemed to rest better when Izzie wasn't beside her, but Izzie wanted to feel her lover's warmth and listen to her breathing. She told herself it was because she wanted to keep a close eye on Addison, but the real reason was because she didn't want to miss Addison as she was for the last time.

Addie barely moved as Izzie climbed in beside her, simply sighed and cried out a little as a spasm of pain stabbed at her. Izzie carefully gathered Addison to her, smiling a little as Addie whispered her name and settled into the spoon of Izzie's body. Addison smelled like a dying person, but Izzie didn't care, burying her nose into Addie's hair and rubbing her hands down the sticks of her poor white arms.

Addison's breathing was somewhat laboured; it wasn't that it sounded wheezy, but it seemed to cost her strength to fill and release her lungs. The cancer had spread there – Izzie had an oxygen mask when it got really bad, but it didn't really seem to help. Nevertheless, Izzie drank it in – drank in Addison's gentle warmth; drank in her breathing and smiled into her hair. When she fell asleep, she felt better, knowing that Addie was right beside her.

_Little child_

_Be not afraid_

_The storm clouds mask your beloved moon_

_And its candlelight beams_

_Still keep pleasant dreams_

_I am here tonight_

Derek and Meredith were staying in the guest room, next to the master bedroom. They lay with their arms around each other, listening to each other's breath, thanking God that it wasn't them with a dying lover. Derek had been doing a lot of crying. Meredith had tried to comfort him, but she knew that it wasn't something she could fix, this time. This was an older love, an older friendship, an older relationship. And to lose it for good was something beyond her understanding. She tried to kiss it away, but the tears kept coming back, and for the hundredth time, she wondered what it was about Addison that made the tears fall from even her eyes.

They both looked up when they heard Izzie's crying – she was calling their names and crying, and Derek grabbed Meredith's hand as they ran into the master bedroom, knowing that if it wasn't it, it was so close. Addison's not waking up, came the call – and it was a relief and a nightmare – who knew they could mix so irrevocably?

_Little child_

_Be not afraid_

_The wind makes creatures of our trees_

_And the branches to hands_

_They're not real, understand_

_And I am here tonight_

Two days later, Addison was still unconscious and it was killing Izzie. She may have stroked out; she may have slipped into a coma because her body just couldn't handle the energy and commands that it needed to live. Derek wanted to call the hospital, but Izzie forbade it. Addison wanted to die at home. She was going to die at home.

They took turns sitting with her – well, Izzie wouldn't have moved from Addie's side if Derek and Meredith hadn't made her – and it was always the same. Slow, laboured breathing under the oxygen mask. Blue eyes closed; red hair shining weakly on her forehead, face smoothed out in peace. It was a waiting game, like all of life is, but this time; all three would have waited forever, if it only meant that Addison wasn't going to slip away.

_And someday you'll know_

_That nature is so_

_This same rain that draws you near me_

_Falls on rivers and land_

_And forest and sand_

_Makes the beautiful world that you see_

_In the morning_

At one point, Derek came to sit beside Izzie, who was holding Addison's hand and staring into her face with a desperate sort of hope. "Izzie, sweetheart . . . you've got to let her go. She's trying to go," he whispered, rubbing Izzie's tight shoulders.

Izzie whirled around, ready to bite his head off, and then met his empathetic eyes. He knew, more than she did, how much she ached for Addison to smile one more time. "There's no chance?" she asked, even though she knew the answer.

In response, Derek wrapped his arms around Izzie, holding her securely. When he let go, he shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and the tears spilled down her cheeks, but she was ready. Leaning down, she whispered, "Go on. Go to sleep, sweetheart. I won't hope anymore."

It was the first time that Izzie regarded hope as a hurt.

_For you know, once even I _

_Was a little child_

_And I was afraid_

_But a gentle someone always came_

_To dry all my tears_

_Trade sweet sleep for fears_

_And to give a kiss goodnight_

_Well, now I am grown_

_And these days have shown_

_Rain's a part of how life goes_

_But it's dark and it's late_

_So I'll hold you and wait_

'_Til your frightened eyes do close_

When the time came, they were sitting in Addison's room. Her breathing had become wheezy and hard to listen to – they all knew it was time. Izzie, her face twisted in pain, held Addison in her arms, cradling her like a child, stroking her cheek. Her chest hitched with the effort of keeping the promise, keeping the tears back. No tears. No tears.

Derek had Addison's hand, he kissed it every so often, his mouth quivering. Meredith sat like a ministering angel, calm and serene, holding Addie's other hand. They knew that of the three, Mere could keep it together. She would fall apart later, but she'd sat at enough deathbed-sides to give the dying the dignity they needed to go.

Addie's breath hitched once, twice, and then, much as the wind breathes out before a storm, they felt the life leave her and her chest still. Her mouth slackened a little; her eyes became absolutely still. And the only sound in the room was Izzie's unchecked crying as she fulfilled the end of her promise.

_And I hope that you'll know_

_That nature is so_

_This same rain that draws you near me_

_Falls on rivers and land_

_And forests and sand_

_Makes the beautiful world that you see_

_In the morning_

_Everything's fine in the morning_

_The rain will be gone in the morning_

_But I'll still be here in the morning._


	4. Just Me and Me

**It's Just Me and Me**

This thing happens with death – after awhile, life seems to go on without you. It seems like you're standing there and the world is whirling about you, and you just can't seem to take that step forward. For Izzie, it's a repeat of when Denny had died, except this time, it was two months later and she needs to return to work, and she can't make the step forward. This time, she's done nothing wrong. This time, Izzie has patients that are so new to the world that they haven't ever experienced anything emotionally horrible, and she needs to be on her top game. And she can't move from the place where she'd let Addison go. She can't lift her feet to keep going on, even though she'd promised Addie she would.

Unfortunately, life doesn't stop to wait for you to be ready to make that first step. In fact, you pretty much have to do it yourself, or watch everyone else move on without you. Why, thinks Izzie, does everyone else seem to be able to pull out of the grief, and I can't? Every day it hurts so much, and every day I wake up and think I can feel her beside me. It always takes a minute before I realize she's gone and she's never coming back.

Working on the Maternity and Neonatal floors . . . Izzie is, frankly, terrified to go back there. Because every other minute, she's going to be looking up and expecting to see flame-coloured hair bouncing on the shoulders of a white-coated, Prada-clad attending who may be professional and may be brusque, but always has a special smile for Izzie, even though she may be rebuking her in front of four interns. And every time she looks up, she's not going to see Addison there. She can't ask Addison how she would look after a mother with pre-eclampsia, or treat a newborn who's inhaled meconium in the birth canal. She's got to do it by herself, now, and help the interns that really have no idea at all.

No one's there to catch Izzie. Izzie's got to learn to walk again, all alone.

_No one's picking up the phone_

_It's just me and me_

_And this little masochist_

_She's ready to confess_

_All the things that I never that she could feel _

She pushes through the double doors of the hospital, feeling their familiar weight against her shoulder, but only because she has to, because to feel means she's human. She's got her scrubs in her bag and her white coat is still hanging in her locker. Everyone's been really understanding about her needing time off. They all know Izzie is breakable. They all know that the tears haven't stopped yet.

Everyone moves around Seattle Grace in unaccustomed silence when Izzie passes. Everyone is afraid to ask her questions, to touch her, to even look at her. It's like Izzie has cancer, instead of Addison. It's like Izzie's been through some sort of incredible trauma. She almost laughs at the thought, but the fact is, it's true. She's never felt like this before. She's never been this lost, not even when Denny passed, and that was the worst. This . . . well, remember the woman in _What Dreams May Come_? She's like that. Except no one's coming to save her from the hell that she's lost in. No one's looking for her. As Izzie opens the door of her locker (two spins to the right, and pull hard because the door sticks), she has to stick her head inside and bury her nose in one of Addison's scarves because the tears are coming hard and fast and she doesn't want anyone to see her fall apart.

Bailey is bustling about, ordering interns around, being caustic and caring and entertaining, all at once. Addison used to do this hilarious impression of Bailey, the way she walks and the way she moves her head. It was bang on; Izzie nearly wet herself laughing the first time. Thinking about this, Izzie chokes with half-laughter, half-sobbing, into the scarf. It's then that she feels a hand on her shoulder. When she looks up, it's the last person she expects to see.

_Hey Jupiter, nothing's been the same_

_So are you gay? Are you blue?_

_Thought we both could use a friend to run to_

_And I thought I wouldn't have to be_

_With you, something new . . . _

Everyone else had been, in some way, connected with Addison's death. They'd either visited her when she was sick, or sat with her at her death, or come to comfort Izzie after the funeral was over. But except for the first day after the funeral, when Izzie had been so desperately distraught that she hadn't noticed anyone, Alex has not been around. Alex has this weird thing with death – it's nothing he's ever talked about, or mentioned to anyone, but Izzie could tell that he was uncomfortable and repulsed by the whole business.

Alex doesn't really understand why he's doing this. He tells himself that he's only doing it because Izzie's his friend, and they have history, and all that jazz. And if he really wants to admit it to himself, he's still attracted to her and he's doing it because she keeps staring hopelessly around the locker room and it's killing him to see that wildly desperate look in her eyes. He's never talked about this, but he can relate. And he'd never say this otherwise, but Izzie's had this happen twice and no one else really gets it. But he does. He really, really does.

"Iz," Alex starts in a soft voice. "How's it going, buddy?"

She looks up, meets his dark eyes, tries to smile. "Hey, Evil Spawn. First day back." She shivers a bit. "Little harder than I expected it to be."

"What's there to be scared of?" Alex's voice is low, soothing, rational. It makes Izzie feel a bit better. "Okay, yeah. I mean, O'Malley's been all over the place lately. And Yang's always a bitch. But no one's going to make it any harder for you than it has to be. No one's gonna forget that you're really raw right now."

Listening to him, Izzie feels herself relax a little, feel brave enough to meet some of the impersonal interns' and residents' eyes around the locker room. She turns back to Alex, who still holds her shoulders. "They don't bother me," she whispers. "But I can't go down to the floor because she's not going to be there. She's not there to help me and –" Suddenly her voice breaks and she gasps harshly, her chest hitching. "I don't think I can do it alone, you know, I just don't know enough."

Alex pauses a minute, as if considering what she says. He doesn't seem to mind that Izzie's gulping and trying to get her sobs under control, that she has a hand on her shoulder as she tries to steady herself. He's seen her in enough crying jags to know that this is just Izzie, it's all good, she'll get herself back in order in a minute.

"At first, it's really hard. Because everything revolves around that person, work and home, learning, loving, laughing, the whole nine yards. And you can't imagine trying to go on with life because they were such a part of it." He raises his eyes. "But you either push through it or you let it overwhelm you. And I'm not saying that it's not going to leave scars or hurt when someone hits it the wrong way. I'm not gonna tell you that you're going to come out of this without any blood either. But I'm telling you that you can move on with your life without forgetting her. You could never forget her, Iz." He puts his arms around her for a minute, and Izzie rests against his shoulder for a second, breathing in his Irish Spice soap and sharp cologne. "There's no danger of that."

Izzie lets go of her locker and turns to meet her day.

_Sometimes I breathe you in and I know you know_

_And sometimes you take a swim_

_Found your writing on my wall_

_If your heart's soaking wet, boy, _

_Your boots can leave a mess._

Izzie's in the NICU, you know, she goes there to hide, like everyone else, when things get too hard. So far, she's taken the day slowly. One surgery, a straightforward C-section. Two consults, one pregnant teenager, one baby transferred from Mercy West for a heart defect (which Cristina helped her on). One lady with pain in her abdomen and a positive test for ovarian cancer. And then everything went to hell in a hand basket.

The babies are lined up in their isolettes. Some are almost better; these ones have parents that are staring adoringly through the windows, pointing and breaking out into the most incredibly proud smiles. Some are too sick to move, so they're under heat lamps and hooked up to wires, and pushed to the side where they won't be too disturbed by the others. The place where Izzie stands is where the babies who are going to be fostered are. These sick little ones don't have homes yet, or anyone who loves them, and Izzie empathizes, because she's lost, too.

_Hey Jupiter, nothing's been the same_

_So are you gay? Are you blue?_

_Thought we both could use a friend to run to_

_And I thought you wouldn't have to keep _

_With me, hiding . . ._

_Oooh, yes._

There's a little girl farthest to the wall; if you looked inside the windows, you couldn't see her. You have to be inside the NICU to even catch sight of her isolette in the corner. The baby is four days old; she has pneumonia because she was premature. Izzie sits in the corner rocking chair and holds the baby, who's wrapped up in a soft pink blanket, because she needs someone to love right now. Strictly speaking, she's not really allowed to, but she's a resident and what's the intern going to say? The baby, who's cried pretty well non-stop since she was born, is quiet in Izzie's arms, sucking on her little fist. Izzie likes babies, but she doesn't really attach to the ones that pass through the NICU. However, she's drawn to this little girl, because she has a faint brush of red hair and when she opens her eyes, they're baby blue.

Izzie had had a conversation, not long after the funeral, with Addison's brother, who Addie never really spoke to when she was alive. He was upset, but not so much that he didn't want to talk about Addison, and Izzie had actually stopped crying for the first time in days, when they'd been in her living room sipping tea. He'd told her about baby Addison, with her bright little smile and red curls; the way as a five-year-old she'd wet her pants in kindergarten class and put on a long sequined skirt from the dress-up box to hide the stain; how she'd adored playing the piano and been a band geek, in the jazz, chamber and marching bands in high school. Later, Addie had worked through medical school, graduating either the top of her class or close to. Hearing about Addison as a child, imagining the serious-faced red-haired little girl, had made Izzie's heart grow warm, and eased the pain of the loss a little bit.

The baby in her arms could have been Addison, thirty-nine years ago. Izzie rocks the baby quietly, and lets the tears fall. She's been so good all day. She deserves this.

_Thought I knew myself so well, all the dolls I had_

_Took my leather off the shelf_

_Your apocalypse was fab_

_For a girl who couldn't choose between the shower or the bath_

_And I thought I wouldn't have to be_

_With you, a magazine . . . _

_Oooh, yes._

"Baby Addie, eh?"

The deep voice startles Izzie out of her reverie. She jumps and the baby starts to wail. When she gets the baby calmed down, she looks up and sees Mark Sloan standing at the door of the NICU, his eyes on the little red-haired girl in Izzie's arms.

"She could be," says Izzie, her voice a little choked. She clears her throat and places the baby gently back in her isolette. When she straightens up, Mark is standing next to her. He runs an uncharacteristically gentle hand over the baby's red hair and sniffs audibly, obviously trying to get his emotions under control. Mark is a big bear of a man, and he doesn't cry in front of anyone. But death makes you do things you may never have done in the past. And when Izzie sees Mark rubbing his big fists into his eyes, she finds herself putting a hand on his shoulder and pulling him into her arms, giving him a warm hug.

"Hey," she whispers. "Hey." She rubs a hand over his back, trying to allow him time to get himself under control. Mark had been absent through this whole ordeal, but Izzie doesn't blame him for it. At the funeral, he had been visible in the very back, and when it came time at the end of the service to pay last respects, he had spent a long time hunched over the coffin, his hand on the surface, tears running down his cheeks. Izzie, through her own grief, had almost swooned with the thought of Mark's.

"If she had agreed . . . two years ago," Mark begins, "I'd have someone who looks a little bit like her. Or maybe a lot like her. I'm sure that the baby would have had her red hair. Maybe her smile." His voice is cracked and Izzie's tears are running down her face. "For a long time, I hated you," he says, raising anguished blue eyes to hers. "Because she was willing to love you and she was never willing to give me a chance."

Mark sniffs again and Izzie is overcome by the hurt and pain on his face. She can't believe how Mark Sloan, asshole extraordinaire, looks like a hurt little boy when he cries. How his gruff voice turns almost pleading through the curtain of his tears. She presses his hand, but she really doesn't have anything to say to that.

"And then I realized, maybe this is the best thing. Maybe she could be happy with you, because she never was with me, or with Derek, or with anyone else. It was a day-to-day struggle to love Addison, because she got to the point where she hated me, I think. Hated what we could have had and I hated me, too. I could have tried harder for her. I didn't realize what I'd lost until she was finally gone, and you had her. And now she'll never know how I really felt, and I never got the chance to try to make it okay."

Izzie is openly sobbing, now, and she once again puts a hand on his shoulder. "I know you loved her," she whispers. "I wish you had come to see her."

"She wouldn't have had me in the house," he says wryly, smiling a little through his tears. "I know Addison."

Izzie keeps her hand on his arm as they walk out, because she feels like she can actually move without pain when she's holding onto Mark. They're both stony-faced and this conversation is never going to be mentioned again by either one. But Izzie feels like she can at least get through the rest of the day. She thinks.

_No one's picking up the phone _

_Guess it's clear she's gone_

_And this little masochist_

_Is lifting up her dress_

_Guess I thought I could never feel the things I feel now_

The day is over, now, and Izzie finds herself at her locker again, staring inside. Once upon a time, Addison would have come in here, and they might have kissed behind the locker door, or held hands as they walked out to the car. They would have gone home and made some dinner, spent some time by the fire with a glass of wine. And it would have been so simple, but so perfect.

Izzie's always hated going home to a dark, cold house, because you know what? It means that you're alone. And you have to make it warm and bright if you want to be comfortable.

Is it possible to miss someone more than you'd miss breathing, or sleeping?

_Hey Jupiter, nothing's been the same_

_So are you gay? Are you blue?_

_Thought we both could use a friend to run to_

_Hey Jupiter, nothing's been the same_

_So are you safe? Now we're through_

_Thought we both could use a friend to run to_

_Hey Jupiter._

Sometimes, grief is impossible. But there are small steps. One day, it's not going to be this hard. After all, she's been promised.

Izzie hugs herself. She's been promised.


	5. Ribbons Undone

**Ribbons Undone**

**A/N: Thanks so much, everyone, for your wonderful reviews through this. This has been a wonderful therapeutic exercise for me, and your support has made it that much more special. I feel like this is one of the best things I've written – and you've all made it possible to keep going. hugs to each and everyone of you! **

_She's a girl, rising from her shell_

_Running to spring, it is her time_

_It is her time – watch her run_

_With ribbons undone._

Funny thing about death – sometimes, when you least expect it, it stops hurting so much. You can wake up one morning and your first thought isn't that heart-stabbing grief consuming you. It might actually be something that normal people think about – like what they have to do at work today, or where their grocery list is. It might be a warm, comfortable thought like "the sun is so warm today" or "I wish I could stay in bed for a little longer". Sometimes, it might even be a thought of the deceased person – and those are the best mornings of all.

When Izzie wakes up, she doesn't begin to cry. It's almost surreal – there hasn't been a morning in the six months since Addison's death that she hasn't cried, either upon waking, in the shower, or over her coffee as Meredith or Alex looks on with pity and sympathy. Today, however, she doesn't cry. She doesn't feel great, either. But she doesn't cry.

She gets up and walks to the shower, and is immediately assaulted with the thought of Addison when she steps into the shower. But this time, it isn't Addie's pale cheeks or weak smile that comes to mind – this time, it's how Addison used to laugh and toss her hair when she was utterly, perfectly happy. And Izzie suddenly finds herself able to step into the shower without having to force herself to go forward. Strange.

When Izzie met Addison, she was fully and utterly on Meredith's side. Addison was the adulterous whore who had hurt Izzie's good friend, and she wasn't about to have anything to do with her. Never mind that Addison had a beautiful smile and a wonderful beside manner; never mind that she was flirty, pretty and seemed like a lot of fun. Izzie hated her on principle because Meredith couldn't stop crying at night and more often than not, Izzie was the one that had to sit up with her until she fell asleep. Why should she like someone that made one of her loved ones this upset?

So when Bailey assigned Izzie to work with Addison, Izzie was sure that she'd absolutely hate every minute of it. She had marched in, head held high, and had immediately experienced such a strong frisson of attraction that she'd nearly fallen over. Addison, even with that horrible hairstyle she'd had then (tight gelled curls that did not show off the beautiful shine and length of her red hair), had been absolutely stunning. And after she'd shown Izzie just how good of a doctor she was, Izzie couldn't hate her quite as much. She'd even given her a smile or two during their shift together.

At the end of the shift, Addison had walked out with Izzie, and they'd spent a little time by the door, talking about the patient that they'd looked after that day. As Izzie had giggled about some aspect of the case and walked out the door, Addison had put a gentle hand on Izzie's arm. Startled, Izzie had turned to Addison with a shocked look in her eyes.

"Dr. Montgomery?"

"Thanks for your help today, Dr. Stevens. You show a lot of talent." Addison had patted Izzie's arm, smiled, and gone out the door. In future months, Izzie had come to love it when Addison smiled at her like that.

_She's a rose in a lily's cloak_

_She can hide her charms_

_It is her right_

_There will be time to chase the sun _

_With ribbons undone_

Addison always wore salmon scrubs – it was a bit of a joke among the interns. Izzie had hated the salmon scrubs at first – honestly, who would look that ridiculous? As a respected surgeon, it was blue scrubs or nothing, according to Izzie. But secretly, Izzie loved Addison's salmon scrubs. Sure, they clashed with her hair. But when Addison wore them, you could see the curve of her breasts and her bottom. You could see the shape of her long legs as she walked towards you. And for Izzie, all of that was really distracting and exceedingly sexy.

One day, when they were working quietly on a premature baby, Izzie ventured a question. "Dr. Montgomery," she blurted. "Why salmon scrubs?"

Addison had looked surprised, but she leaned against the baby's isolette for a moment and considered the question. "Well, Izzie . . . because what's the point of looking like everyone else?"

During the time that Addison and Izzie were together, Izzie had never seen her dress like anyone else. It was one of the things that made Addison so incredibly attractive. Whatever she did, she never followed the crowd.

_She runs like a fire does_

_Just picking up daises_

_Comes in for a landing_

_A pure flash of lightning_

_Past Alice-blue blossoms_

_You follow her laughter_

_And then she'll surprise you_

_Arms filled with lavender_

Izzie had hated Addison the day that she had been forced to sit and save the dying baby who never had a chance in the first place. She'd sat and sat with baby Emily, pumped her full of drugs, performed infant CPR until she thought she'd drop dead from exhaustion and stress, and still, the baby died. Addison had been incredibly harsh about it all – quite unlike herself. Her face had tightened and when she'd left for the night, her shoulders had drooped. Izzie had harboured almost hatred towards the woman she had come to really look forward to working with.

Later, when Addison had tried to explain her actions, Izzie didn't want to have anything to do with her. Izzie knew it had been a valuable lesson in patient care, but she didn't care about that. She felt betrayed and dreaded seeing Addison day-to-day. So when Addie went to seek her out in the on-call room, Izzie had turned her back and tried to ignore the flame-haired woman sitting on the edge of her bed.

"Izzie, please. You've got to grow a thicker skin if you're going to be a surgeon." Addison's voice was gentle, but it carried a firmness that Izzie couldn't ignore. She sat up and stared Addison right in her baby-blue eyes.

"You told me she had a chance. You LIED to me, Addison. You told me that I could help her, and she died." Tears came unbidden to Izzie's eyes, and she brushed angrily at them, trying to control herself, even though she could feel her lower lip trembling.

Addison sat down next to Izzie, the scent of her perfume wafting around them both. She put an arm around Izzie and Izzie, although she didn't want to, leaned against Addison's shoulder. "Maybe I shouldn't have done that, so early in your intern career. It's a hard lesson to learn, and it's pretty upsetting when you've been up all night to get the news that the patient's died. But I guarantee that it will make you a better doctor." She stroked Izzie's hair gently and Izzie sighed.

"Okay. I guess so. I'm still mad at you, though."

Addison smiled. "Well, I can take it." She cuddled Izzie for a minute, and then got up to go. When she went out the door, Izzie felt a physical pain at the loss of her presence.

_Yes my little pony is growing up fast_

_She corrects me and says_

_"You mean a Thoroughbred"_

_A look in her eyes says the battle's beginning_

_From school she comes home and cries_

"_I don't want to grow up, Mom, at least not tonight."_

Whenever Izzie picks up a scalpel, she always remembers what Addison told her about cutting. Always cut towards you and do it slowly, so that you don't tear the skin. Scalpels are sharp, but skin is tougher than you think, so you have to take care or you can end up doing damage to the patient and to yourself. A clean cut leaves less of a scar.

Whenever Addison used a scalpel, or hell, whenever she did anything with her hands, she was always steady – never shaky. She spent hours with Izzie, teaching her how to cut without her hands trembling. Surgery makes you nervous, she had said, but you can get over it. Think of it as the world's greatest hobby and the most important thing you'll do all day.

When Izzie picks up a scalpel, she imagines Addison's hands around her own. She never tears the skin, anymore.

_You're a girl_

_Rising from a shell_

_Running through spring_

_With summer's hand in reach now_

_It is your time_

Izzie's at work and she hasn't cried all day – not even when she got biopsy results back and told a woman that she had cancer. She's even able to laugh at some jokes that the nurses told and enjoy having lunch with her friends. She thinks of Addison, but it doesn't hurt anymore. She misses Addison, but it's not hopeless anymore. Something, however, doesn't seem right about this.

She's sitting with Cristina and Meredith, who are bitching about their respective problems, when she cuts in. "I don't feel sad about Addison anymore."

They both look up, pause in their commiserating. "Well . . ." Meredith begins. "That's good, isn't it? I mean, you were devastated."

"Yeah, I guess, but this is really strange. And I don't like it." Both doctors raise their eyebrows and move uncomfortably. "Uh, Iz? You don't like feeling better?" Cristina asks incredulously.

"No . . ." Izzie's eyes suddenly fill with tears – damn, she'd thought she could go a whole day without crying! "If I don't feel sad, it's getting better. I loved her so much, more than I've ever loved anyone. I don't want to forget her. I don't want it to stop hurting, because then she fades."

Meredith comes over, sits next to Izzie, puts her little arms around Izzie's shoulders. "You'll never forget her, Izzie. You can't," she says simply, so simply that Izzie believes her. She leans her blonde head against Meredith's smooth brown hair and draws a deep breath. Yes, the pain is still there – deep, deep down.

Cristina is looking torn – like she wants to say something, but is afraid to say it. Finally, she pipes up. "Izzie . . . why do you think Addison wants you to be sad for the rest of your life?"

Izzie's head snaps up. "She doesn't. She would never want that."

"So why do you think you should be sad for the rest of your life?"

Izzie opens her mouth to retort, stops, and thinks. "Because I loved her, and I don't want her to ever think that I don't think about her or miss her."

"She doesn't think that. No one wants their loved ones to suffer. Addison knows that you'll remember her. Like Mer said, how are you going to forget someone who you gave your whole life to?" A shadow of pain crosses Cristina's face and although she never says anything, they all know that she's not quite over Burke, even though it's been a year and a half.

Izzie doesn't really feel validated, but she does feel a little better – it happened with Denny and it will happen with anyone who dies. Sometimes, it's okay to feel better. Sometimes, it's okay to remember with fondness instead of pain.

_So just run with ribbons undone_

_It is your time, yes, my angel_

_It is your time_

_So just run with ribbons undone_

So does she let Addie go? Does she let go of the grief, of the pain? Does she keep the promise of no tears?

Not really – it's still going to hurt. She's still going to cry when she sees Addison's silk robe in the closet or listens to her old Ella Fitzgerald CD. She might feel a mind-numbing, breath-stealing pain when she picks up Addison's favourite cup or gets a letter that's addressed to Dr. A Montgomery. She might even cry herself to sleep because what she wants most in the world is to feel Addie's arms around her again.

But when she closes her eyes, she doesn't see Addison, sick, weak and dying. She sees Addison, flame hair flowing behind her, turning around and laughing, reaching her hands out to catch Izzie as they run through the park that one summer day last year. She hears Addison laughing, remembers her beautiful soprano singing voice, feels the touch of her sensitive fingers when she stroked Izzie's hands or gave her a back massage.

And really, wouldn't you want the same? If you were in Izzie's place, wouldn't you want to remember your loved one as free and beautiful? Because everything that Addison was – her faults, her virtues, her idiosyncrasies and her talents – she was first and foremost a woman, and before that, she was a little girl. All the time, she was human, compassionate, loving. Time gives a gift – it gives the gift of mercy. Without it, the world would be full of grief.

Whatever Addison was – wherever she was now, Izzie knows that she's proud. Because Izzie can keep the promise – she can let the grief fade. You can let someone run and still love them just as much.

_Run, run, my darling_

_Ribbons undone._


End file.
